Like Day and Night
by Devin Trinidad
Summary: Stan despises the day. Ford fears the night. Their amnesia and insomnia plague them both.
1. lq wkh gdb, zh plvv rxu phprulhv

Stan would never tell Ford this, but he despises the day.

There's a reason why Stan feels more comfortable with the night.

Call it a remnant of his past when he was a full time criminal, but Stan knows that the darkness is his home.

He had spent many years running from the police, scamming people, playing with the parts of the portal… The list goes on and on.

Ford doesn't know why he likes the dark so much, the idea had boggled his mind. How could anyone like the dark? Or at least to the great extent Stan did? Ford would probably never understand, but Stan was just fine with that. He felt free in the cover of night, and when he remembers all the time he spent poring over his brother's journal and books,

(Bright blue light. A portal. A scream resounding in the night. Finally, a sense of triumph.)

Stan feels accomplished.

Maybe that's why he doesn't like the day so much.

During the day, he's an old, pasty man with too much blubber in his midsection. The ocean radiates with the light from the sun, the wind gently embraces his locks, but Stan can't—doesn't— take it. He feels inferior, like he doesn't belong in the present and that he doesn't deserve the laughing birds and the bobbing ship as it courses through the waves.

Did he really deserve this life?

And then, when he's careless and lets himself drift far too deep into the past, his memories fade and escape from him.

Little things, Stan found, could trigger his sudden episodes of forgetfulness. One minute he could be staring at the clouds. The next, he would be staring at Ford with new eyes.

Stan hates daylight with a fervent passion.

* * *

Sometimes Stan finds himself sitting quietly on the deck of their ship.

With the waves crashing against the boat and a clear sky carelessly littered with stars, the conman is finally at ease and content. He knows that there are some gaps in his memory, but the old man shrugs his concerns off. He has his family now. He has Dipper, Mabel, Soos, Wendy, and of course, Ford. There's a nagging feeling in his gut that his past life wasn't as cracked up as he thought it could have been. Nevertheless, Stan liked looking forward instead of back. Life was—will always be—simpler that way.

As for Ford, he agrees.

Stan, although reborn as a new man due to past events concerning a dream demon, isn't naïve. The conman sees in his brother's eyes sadness, and something dark lurking. After many years of scrutinizing people's emotions and actions, Stan knows that there's something wrong. He remembers snippets of when Dipper and Mabel were talking about the conception of the portal and the events that subsequently took place. Ford had remained quiet on the subject.

He didn't talk about it.

Stan, not wanting any confrontations, didn't push.

Still, Stan finds himself worrying when he sees his brother, late at night when the moon has completely disappeared, slouched on a desk and his head in his hands. He's a genius, but he shies away from sleep like a child cowering from the monsters gallivanting in the dark. It's disconcerting to see his hardened brother look so brooding and yet so vulnerable, but sometimes he remembers.

(There are flashes of older kids pushing them down, bruises from shoves, and laughter. Always the laughter.)

And just as soon as Stan remembers a tidbit of something, Ford is already pushing away from the desk, a new theory and adventure at hand.

(Stan doesn't miss the presence of fresh bags under his brother's eyes and emaciated figure.)

Still, Stan shrugs it off. He was never one for emotions, and he's not about to get all touchy feely with his brother. However, there's nothing stopping Stan from pushing a plate of freshly cooked food filled with his brother's favorite foods. The meal smells enticing, appears mouthwatering, and all neatly ordered so that Ford can dissect it if his scientist urges came over him.

("Is it my birthday already?"

"Can't a guy cook his brother some food? Ya better thank me when you're done.")

They share a laugh and it's only after Ford wipes his plate clean that Stan finally takes a bite of his food. It's savory and divine, but it's Ford's relaxed stance that has Stan laughing and sharing terrible jokes.

And then there's _those_ nights.

Sometimes it rains.

Sometimes it's dark out, and the sea finally calms from its usual capricious self.

Sometimes.

Sometimes.

S ometimes.

But it's always when Stan finds himself deep in slumber that he hears cries in the night.

Call it paternal instinct that he seems to have inherited after taking care of the kids, but Stan knows that there's something wrong. In a flash, Stan's out of bed, a bat in his hands, and a left kick—because a left hook is for the villains in their adventures—knocking down his brother's door. The door, he finds, is easier to break through than he had anticipated. Once Stan finds himself in the room (meticulous and well organized), he finds his brother blearily rubbing his eyes and glaring at his brother.

"Stan, that was a perfectly good door. It's far too early to be breaking down doors." His twin's voice is measured and calculated, a tactic that he had used many times before to make sure that people don't catch on to what he was actually feeling.

For a moment, Stan feels a little insulted that his brother would think that he would fall for that old trick, but he's right. It is a little early for all this nonsense, but there's something wrong and murky hovering in the air.

Stan doesn't like it.

The feeling is familiar. The sensation of being second best, being a failure, permeates his chest and Stan gets ready to retort with his own wit. Despite his readiness, Stan falters for a second and he takes that extra time to look at his brother in greater detail.

What he sees disturbs him.

If there were dark bags before, there were surely large shadows that bore down his face. His eyes were wild with fear and his breathing came out in small quick gasps. Sweat rolled down his forehead. Stan had seen this before. He had seen it on himself. Fear.

Wild, untamed fear.

He finds himself relaxing from his intimidating posture before he slowly crosses the room and heavily sits on one of the chairs in the room. He seats himself down with a tired sigh as he scans his brother for anything else.

"I'm not that smart, but you can tell me anything. You know that, right?" Stan looks down at his hands, almost fearful of what his brother was going to say. Out of habit, he scratches the skin at the back of his neck and shifts a bit in his seat in anticipation. For a moment, there is silence, but then Ford speaks.

"Stan…get back to bed. You don't want to miss the kraken first thing in the morning!" Ford infuses a light air of false cheer and Stan feels himself deflate.

He looks up at his brother, fully taking him in. Ford's smiling, but the light's nearly extinguished and the heaviness that oppresses them both still hangs in the air like old, vengeful ghosts.

Stan can't take it anymore.

He needs to breathe.

Stan hollowly laughs before he shuffles out of the room and bids his brother a farewell.

As he leaves, he can't help but feel that he's failed.

* * *

The cries come and go. Stan's worry only grows exponentially and one night, he can't take it anymore. His brother had abandoned the refuge of sleep, the muffled shrieks grow louder and louder. Sometimes, Stan can feel himself slipping in that dark abyss of amnesia before he snaps himself out of it.

A part of him wants to blame Bill Cipher, but another part of him wants to forget.

So one night, he gets up from his bed, grabs an extra blanket from his closet, and goes into Ford's room. It's before the nightmares start creeping in and taking hold of his brother, before the screaming and the denial sets in. The old man takes a moment to scan his brother; he sees him shudder and writhe a moment before relaxing back into resigned silence. After a moment, Stan tucks in the blanket around his brother and starts holding his hand.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Ex—a sudden gasp and Ford shrieks.

He starts to curse and Stan slightly tightens his grip on his younger twin. Ford relaxes and he starts to breathe normally.

Stan stays there the entire night.

* * *

Unbeknownst to Ford, Stan continues to visit every night. Stan's eyes become weathered and worn, he sometimes dozes at his post, but it's worth it. Ford seems to smile freely now and his night terrors that plagued him at the start of their journey seem to fade with each passing day.

Stan, although wearied and tired, doesn't mind.

He would do anything for his brother.


	2. lq wkh qljkw, rxu guhdpv vhdo xv dzdb

After many years adapting to the cruel and unusual circumstances in the foreign dimension, Ford learned to crave the sunlight and the bright blue skies overhead. He absolutely adored the rush of wind that tousled his graying locks, and he reveled in the countless masterpieces the clouds created just for him. It's a childish wonder, but he doesn't care about adult obligations. He's alive, he's with his brother, and they're on an adventure of a lifetime.

And then, sometimes, it happens.

Maybe he's talking to Stan. Maybe they're sharing a joke for old times' sake. Or maybe they're gazing at the water with a look of content.

That's when it usually occurs.

Stan, a big man with small ambitions and eyes always set on the future, would keel over and gaze upon the world with new eyes. Eyes that were clearly Stan's, but weren't at the same time. The first time Ford had seen the sudden regression on the ship, Ford found himself hyperventilating and sweating profusely. It scared Ford so badly that he immediately embraced his brother and whispered small tidbits of information.

("Come on, Stan! Remember me, your brother? What about the kids…Mabel and Dipper?")

He would never admit it, but Ford was terrified that in one of his episodes, Stan would completely forget him. The thought, at first, is childish; Ford doesn't like abandonment. However, it's an old fear, a fear that had plagued him since their years in elementary school. Sometimes, he would watch his brother talking to other kids, eyes bright and shining as he was regaled with stories and opportunities to hang out with the bigger, tougher kids. At times, Ford had the irrational fear that Stan would leave him for someone else.

Was that the reason why he pushed himself into his work?

Was that why he felt so irrationally angry when Stan, after seemingly connected to other people _accidentally_ destroyed his science project and begged him for forgiveness?

"The past is in the past," Ford muttered.

So why did the past keep on haunting him?

"Easy there, Ford. Looks like you're about to kill somethin'!"

Ford looked away from his maps and charts to look at his smirking older brother. Years may have passed, distance might have weakened their bond, but the light never left his eyes. They were warm, brown, but hardened after many years on the run. With a weary smile, Ford pushed away from his chair, looking for all the world like Stanley was about to fall down.

"Stanley," he greeted. "My turn on deck, eh?"

Stan shook his head with a broad grin.

His eyes were warm and comforting, Ford thought. Like twin suns.

"Nah. I just came to get ya before you rotted down to nothin'." Stan grandiosely gestured towards the door. "Come on out! Get some fresh air." As Stan stepped back outside, Ford could hear him muttering, "Why do you look so pasty anyway?"

Ford only stifled a laugh before sobering.

* * *

Ford would never tell his brother, but he hated the idea of sleep. Awake and conscious, the old man had learned the hard way how to keep the terrible memories at bay. While awake, he didn't have to hear the nasal laughter of a psychopath or see the utter destruction and grotesque nature of the other world. However, despite his iron will, his body rejectsedthe lack of sleep and consequently, it showed.

Once or twice, when he was feeling utterly tired and their coffee supply had run low, he would sometimes catch Stan staring at him. Ford didn't need a degree in psychology to know what was going through Stan's mind: he was starting to suspect something.

The scientist hated telling his brother about his troubles, but he felt even worse because he couldn't take it when his twin looked at him like that. Ford didn't want to appear helpless, didn't want to be seen as weak. How could he burden his twin when Stan was also suffering in his own way?

Ford had studied so many elusive creatures before, that observing the minute changes in his brother was child's play. He saw how his brother stiffened at the mention of triangles, of strange occurrences, etc. Sometimes, Ford would catch Stan looking sadly off into the horizon.

Ford felt his fears come back.

He couldn't let his brother drift away again.

Never again.

* * *

Days pass, and Ford finds himself weary and short of temper. He can't sleep—won't sleep—because he knows what terrors lie in wait. He can't bear to let Stan out of his sight because the nagging fear of future episodes frightens him. Slowly, his temper began to wear thin and he found himself drifting from reality throughout the day. Realistically, Ford knew that he couldn't keep on doing this. He should have gotten help; calling a psychiatrist would have done wonders.

"Ya ever sleep, Ford?"

Ford grunted a reply before turning to look at the sky. It was cloudy, he blearily noted. Winds were picking up and the waves were battering the sides of their boat.

Stan waved one of his hands in front of his brother's face.

"Ya sure? It looks like—like—" Stan mumbled something intelligibly before he lapsed into total silence.

Normally, Ford would have returned with a witty quip, but the scientist wasn't in the mood for that. Frankly, it was just one of those days when Ford needed some space and quiet. He thought that he would have been free from most distractions, but Stan just had to barge in like he always did. When the silence, although blessedly peaceful and needed, finally reached the point where it unnerved him, Ford looked away from his blasé perusal of the sky.

Sirens blared in his mind when he saw that his brother's eyes are curiously blank and rolling towards the back of his head.

"S-stan, are you alright!"

("Stupid. Stupid." Ford muttered under his breath. "Of course he isn't all right.")

Ford rushed forward in time to catch his swaying brother. Upon contact, Ford realized that Stan was mumbling unintelligible phrases. With a sharp intake of breath, Ford knew what happening. This was it. Stan was starting to forget again.

("Dates. Objects. The kids! He has to remember the kids!" Ford can't help but mentally scream.)

"W-who?"

* * *

After another hour of making Stan remember, Ford was exhausted. His voice was nearly gone from whispering stories from their shared youth, his brain swam from the lack of sleep, and his skull pounded with startling fervor. It took everything he had in order to not snap at his brother.

Days and nights passed by in a blur. Sometimes Ford would have a semblance of a somewhat good night, but for the most part, his dreams haunted him. Small details (a blanket thrown over him, the warm touch of someone he trusted grasping his hand) escaped him. Ford, however, does notice that his dreams (vivid and terrible) were getting worse.

For the most part, he began to forgo sleep and delve into work like a starved man in need of a long drink.

* * *

One night, the scientist was in the midst of charting another route to the Bermuda Triangle (the last one ended in the both of them almost losing the Stan o' War II), but his mind began to wander again. These were warning signs, but Ford didn't struggle. This time, instead of actively pushing against the fog of sleep, Ford drew himself into an inevitable slumber.

That was where Stan found him, draped over the desk like an exhausted addict in need of his next fix.

* * *

When he awoke, he found himself back in his bed, a cover tucked haphazardly around him.

"You haven't been sleeping, have ya'?"

Ford was about to speak, but Stan held up a hand.

"Three days, Stanford! Three days!" Ford blanched at the mention of his full name. Stan never used it. Ever. "I thought you got some rest here and there, but this has gone on for far too long!" Stan rose up to his full height and towered over his brother. "You're smart and probably don't need as much sleep as the rest of us plebes, but what the hell! You collapsed on yourself like a deck of cards!"

The man's chest heaved up and down. His eyes were filled with rage and compassion for his brother.

"Do you know how much—Do you know—" He dragged a large hand down his face as he tried his hardest to say something meaningful. Why, of all the times he had to muck up, it just had to be now? "I was scared. More than half my life on the run, and I was scared that you were never going to wake up."

At that, Stan fell back into his seat and groaned heavily.

The clock ticked and tocked.

The wind howled in the early morning air.

And Ford heaved a troubled sigh as he slowly sat up, but kept his gaze down at the worn sheets.

"Sometimes, Stan….I get scared too."

"Uh-huh."

Ford blanched at the sarcastic tone.

"…I know that it may not seem like it, but when you—you…relapse and stare at me like I've never existed, I just…Being separated from you was a large blow to my life, Stan. You were my best friend, and I did nothing to bring you back." The scientist finally looked up from the threadbare covers to see that his twin was looking back at him with a hurt look. "But…I'm here now. I don't want to lose you."

Stan sighed.

"Ford…I'm an old man. We're both old, to tell you the truth. I just…" Stan tried in vain to stifle a laugh, but he found that he could not. The harsh, curt chuckle resounded in the bunk as he tried his hardest not to cry out in frustration. "We're messed up. We're falling apart. Better call a mechanic!" He roared in delirium. The old man rubbed his eyes and blinked at his brother—tears had welled up in his eyes.

"Stan, I'm sorry. I just don't want to lose you again."

"Are you saying that because that's what I want to hear? Or are you saying that because you really mean it?"

"No, you needed to hear me say it…and I really do mean it because…you've always been there for me."

Ford muttered something so indistinct that Stan had half a mind to jump up to his feet and lean in closer.

"Got a frog or somethin' in your throat?"

Ford looked away for a moment, the line of his jaw indicating that he was grinding his teeth in hesitation. Finally, he looked at his brother again, pride finally leaving his eyes for once.

"Thank you."

A lot of things went unsaid, but Stan could hear the amount of gravity that was in his voice. He could hear the fear, the hesitation that had at first halted him from saying anything at all.

"Don't mention it." Stan paused at the doorway before he muttered, "Come on out when you're ready."

Despite their bleak situation, Ford found himself smiling.


End file.
